The Caryatid three parts
by CSI Clue
Summary: Irene Adler is no more-or is she?
1. Chapter 1

"_Farewell, fair cruelty."_ William Shakespeare

Part One

Holmes looked down again at the woman in the coffin, and tried to suppress the painful pang in his chest. In death, she looked as lovely as she had in life, and the light from the candle stands at the foot and head of her satin bower cast an ethereal glow to her delicate, still features.

Bending low, Holmes looked down onto her still face. Part of him longed to believe it was a ruse, but the mirror had not fogged before her nose, though he'd held it there for ten minutes when he'd first come to pay his respects.

He bowed his head, voice a hoarse, broken whisper. "This should never have happened, and I bear the blame fully and completely, Irene. I will not rest until I avenge your death."

Mournfully Holmes brushed his warm lips across her cold ones . . .

Irene opened her eyes.

"Hello, Sherlock," came her voice, a hint of amusement in it. He backed up, walking stick raised, his expression wary.

For a long, unreal moment, neither of them moved, and the only sound was the faint crackle of the candles. Holmes held still, studying Irene carefully as she sat up in her coffin.

_Complexion: waxen._

_No visible carotid pulse._

_No discernible respiration._

_Faint scent of roses._

"However you conjured this display, I commend you, Irene," he spoke, stalling to see if his words had any effect. "It is singularly effective. I would surmise you have been studying with Hindu fakirs in the discipline of breath control, however, I cannot account for your lack of body heat; pray tell me how you managed that?"

Irene chuckled, and the sound was both sweet and faintly disconcerting, like sound of distant glass, breaking. "Oh dear; once again you persist in seeking the reasonable explanation in the face of the inconceivable. Really, darling, you need to apply Occam's razor here and accept what you see. I'm quite, quite dead, you know."

"Dead the way Lord Blackwood was dead?" Sherlock countered, taking yet another step back as Irene raised one hand to lightly primp her auburn curls.

"Now that depends on which occasion. I'm dead the way he was that final time in chains, dangling over the Thames, but without quite the degree of drama."

"I find that difficult to accept," Holmes countered, circling the coffin on its bier, "since I am not generally in the habit of conversing with deceased persons."

"As you wish," Irene smiled patiently. The sudden gleam of candlelight off the glittering tips of her canines peeping out from her smirk made him tense.

"The Undead," Holmes began, "Are nothing more than a myth that can be found across world cultures; a universal legend perpetuated by premature burial, porphyria and superstitious ignorance."

"Legends," Irene countered, "generally have a basis in some truth, however minor. We all know King Arthur existed, but nobody has any proof of him."

"_Arthur _has been researched by scholars and archeologists," Holmes testily pointed out as Irene held out a hand to be helped from her coffin. He moved closer, holding the point of the walking stick to the hollow of her throat with one had even as he took her cold fingers with the other.

Irene looked down at the stick. "For a skeptic, you're certainly being cautious."

"Once bitten," he murmured, his words full of intimate ruefulness.

Irene laughed, and this time the sound echoed in the viewing room, like the tinkle of little silver bells. "I'm so delighted my reputation lives on after me."

She gracefully shifted to her knees and climbed out of the coffin, brushing her shroud skirt down and generally straightening herself in the time-honored fashion of women everywhere. Holmes kept his gaze on her, his expression stern.

When Irene looked up, he narrowed his gaze. "In the interest of investigating this folly; how, precisely, did you die, Irene?"

Her dimple, familiar and sweet deepened. "I . . . met someone for a late bite, after the last show at the Lyceum."

"A gentleman admirer," Holmes filled in, his expression tainted with faint jealousy, "clearly not one of your usual . . . retinue."

"Let us move on, shall we? That assignation was the death of me, but before I passed through the vale of tears, my . . . mentor . . . did let me know what would happen and what to expect."

"Considerate of him," Holmes spat out. "Given that he'd murdered you."

"An unforeseeable consequence," Irene admitted, "but one that has been overcome, as you now see. My goodness you're nervous for a man who doesn't believe in the Undead, Sherlock. Your pulse is galloping."

He watched her give a slow blink, her eyes glowing a deep carmine for a moment, and wondered if he could find another weapon, or barring that, at least another length to form a cross with the walking stick. "I may not believe you are risen from the grave, but clearly _you_ do, and therefore are likely to be a bit . . . peckish."

"I am that," Irene admitted, "and you did offer to avenge my death. That was a lovely little tribute, but really, we could dispense with the noble quest and settle the matter with a nip and a cuddle."

"I'd sooner bring a viper to my chest," Holmes snapped.

"You didn't always feel that way," Irene murmured softly, her tone knowing. "In fact, I seem to recall that you weren't at _all _adverse to a bit of tooth here and . . . there." She let her gaze slide down the length of him, and Holmes tightened his jaws, willing himself not to respond to her taunt.

It was difficult not to.

"Be that as it may, necrophilia goes beyond my sensibilities, however . . . exotic those may be at times." He bluffed, "And in any case, I am now required to dispatch you myself, for the greater good of the empire."

Irene cocked an eyebrow at him, and brought her hands to her hips. This gesture made the thin linen shroud tighten invitingly across her bust, and he bit back a moan.

"I'm not threat to the empire," she told him dryly. "Besides, you're not exactly armed for the job. Don't you want to be my . . . first?"

"That—" he caught himself short as her question registered, "What?"

Irene smiled intimately this time, her expression tender. "Sherlock, this is all new to me, and without the right sort of . . . sustenance, I won't survive. It's not a request I make lightly, but given our long and . . . private history, I _trust_ you."

It was precisely the most dangerous thing she could have said, Sherlock realized, since there was no response he could give to that.

"I'm going to use a word I rarely use," Irene whispered, gliding closer, "and I think you know what it is—"

"Irene—" he warned, his voice slow and uncertain. Part of his thoughts raced through what little he knew of vampires and the legends associated with them while the other part dared to imagine precisely what Irene was asking. And if she used _the _word—

"—darling . . . please," she sighed, and he swallowed hard. The decision was bittersweet, and Holmes slowly brought the walking stick down.

"Damn you," he murmured, and Irene gave a tremulous smile of gratitude. She moved closer still, into that intimate space where their breath would mingle, if she still breathed.

"A taste," she told him quietly, "A small taste of your vital essence—one of them anyway."

"Turn me, and I'll hunt you down," he warned, reaching to undo his cuff and pull his coat and shirtsleeve up. "I will take us both out of this second existence as surely as I would snuff a candle flame, Irene."

She bowed her head in acknowledgement, her eyes glowing ruby once more as she focused on his wrist. Sherlock turned it upwards; the tracery of blue against the pale skin was visible in the candlelight. Irene gave an involuntary whimper.

Holmes reached his other arm out, wrapping it around her small shoulders, turning her ninety degrees so that her left shoulder braced against his chest. The grip of his fingers against her right shoulder tightened, steel against the thin shroud.

"Whenever you're—" he didn't get to finish; Irene cupped her two small hands under his forearm and bent swiftly, sinking her delicate fangs into the thin flesh.

Holmes grunted.

A rush of sensation swept through him: a pinch of pain, and then the wild sweep of unexpectedly erotic pleasure magnified by the sensual flick of Irene's tongue, and the soft suction of her mouth. He swayed minutely, watching in fascination as she drank, swallowing daintily, and after the sixth gulp, a small warning at the back of his thoughts made him yank on her shoulders.

She pulled away with reluctance, curls swaying, eyes languid and barely focused. Holmes noted that the little pinpricks along his arm had white edges on them from the suction.

"Enough," he warned, his voice unsteady. "I have a limited supply of blood _and_ patience, Irene."

She licked her lips with a slow sweep, catching errant drops and savoring them before speaking. "In a word: delectable. You _are _a man of good taste."

Holmes sighed and staunched his wrist with a handkerchief. "Flattery is not going to get you a second course."

"True-the rest of it's gone elsewhere," She murmured, and one little hand slipped down to his groin for a quick caress, stroking the turgid length with familiarity.

Holmes bit the inside of his cheek. "Not on the menu."

"Are you sure?" Irene bantered back. There was color in her face now, and a contented mien to her demeanor; Holmes noted faint warmth along her skin. He chose to change the subject.

"What now?" Holmes asked, looking from Irene to the coffin and then over to the door of the side chapel. "You've fed, and now what? Certainly you cannot walk the streets in a winding sheet, and according to legend the daylight will turn you to dust."

Irene gave a little yawn, politely blocked by one hand. "Now, I sleep. The authorities are supposed to ship my remains back to New Jersey, but I think somewhere along the way my coffin will disappear and that will be that. You know how superstitious the working classes are—I'll manage." She looked up at Holmes and her gaze held his. "I'll be fine darling, honestly. This is the start of a whole new adventure."

"Your idea of 'adventure' generally involves the wrong side of authority, propriety and ethics," Holmes commented quietly, "although this one seems far more involved."

"I've been making my own rules for years," Irene pointed out, "and I've managed to survive just fine, thank you. Now if you please?" she held out a hand, and reluctantly Holmes helped her back into the coffin. Irene settled down against the white satin lining and looked up playfully at him. "Goodnight kiss?"

"Kiss of death," he sneered, but bent over her and pressed his mouth to hers. Holmes meant it as a quick buss, but found himself lingering, overwhelmed for a moment by the truth of her changed condition. Irene—his Irene, the woman of flesh and life—was no more.

She reached up a hand to caress his cheek, and her fingers were cool. "Goodbye, darling . . . for now."

He straightened up and Irene closed her eyes, her hands resting at her waist. For a few minutes more, Holmes studied her carefully, and then with reluctance turned away, leaving the side chapel in measured steps. He made his way out of the funeral parlor and out to the street, his melancholy thoughts turning to the question of whether or not the Undead of London were ready for Irene Adler.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

The tunnel held only the murkiest of light, and the stench rose thick and foul from the water filling their shoes. Holmes noted that the lantern was nearly out of oil, and they were still nearly two miles from any metal ladder that would lead up to the street.

Watson was limping and trying to hide it; his bad temper was borne of pain rather than irritation, and Holmes wanted to get him out of the disgusting miasma that was filling their lungs.

"Not much further," he tried to jolly his companion and held the lamp up to see the way ahead. There were coming to a junction, Holmes realized with dismay.

"You said that a mile ago," Watson snapped. "Stop trying to make it sound as if we're on a jolly lark, traipsing through the cesspools for fun."

They reached the junction, and Holmes paused, trying to get his bearings. With no landmark, no scent, no sign to direct them, he had only the vaguest idea where they were. The last ladder they'd passed had been dangling by a single rusted bolt; they hadn't seen any others in nearly an hour.

Now there were two diverging tunnels before them, and Holmes hesitated as the feeble flicker of the bullseye lamp dimly illuminated the darkness that pressed in around them.

He froze, feeling an odd warning chill down his spine, and looked around quickly as Watson leaned against one of the slimy walls to rest his leg. "Watson, do you sense something?"

"I sense I'm going to need a bath in carbolic and that's _if _Mrs. Hudson will even let us back inside," he groused. "I thought you knew the streets of London blindfolded."

"The tops of them, certainly," Holmes murmured in a distracted way. He looked to the leftmost tunnel and the chill increased, running to the base of his spine and in the midst of his trepidation, he realized he was also becoming . . . aroused.

Two red pinpoints of light grew visible, and the shadow around them shaped into a small figure standing in the darkness of the tunnel. "Gentlemen, how sad to see you brought to these depths."

Holmes lifted the lamp higher, and noted Watson's pallor at the sound of the voice. Both of them knew the speaker.

"Dear God, the methane is giving me hallucinations," Watson muttered, pushing off the wall and staring. Holmes straightened his shoulders and kept his gaze forward. He tensed, keeping the dying lantern between himself and Irene.

"What are you doing here, Irene?" He asked.

"Rescuing you," came her saucy response. Irene stepped out, dressed in a man's evening clothes, her hair tucked up in a cap, her expression concerned. "What the hell are you doing here in Tower Hamlets?"

"You're . . ." Watson stammered, his eyes huge. "Holmes!"

"I know," Holmes replied evenly. "I didn't think we'd come that far. How do we get to the surface?"

Irene stood still, her gaze never leaving him. "There's a ladder half a mile behind me, but it's dangerous. You're going to need me if you intend to use it."

"You're dead!" Watson managed, "I checked. I—we—went to your funeral!"

"Thank you," she smiled, and finally looked his way, her eyes glowing crimson. "You always were the more mannerly one. And I _am _dead. I just happen to be in a different type of dead."

"Undead?" Watson flinched, and Holmes nodded slowly.

"It is still difficult for me to accept as well, old friend, but in the face of what we know and what lies waiting to be discovered and explained, here we are. Irene is not alive as we knew her, neither is she dead and returned to dust. Undead is as apt a state as any to describe her."

"Undead," Irene agreed, and half turned her head, listening behind her. "We're not safe. I need the two of you to stay behind me; understand? This is critical."

Holmes heard nothing, but his skin pebbled up as some older, more primitive part of his senses picked up on danger before his conscious thoughts did. He shifted, pulling Watson with him as Irene gracefully spun, her hand tightening on her walking stick.

A second pair of ruby eyes appeared a few feet away in the tunnel; larger eyes. A low, delighted laugh echoed off the dripping curved walls, eerie and sweet. "Compn'y! You didn't say you was expecting vis'tors, Miss A!"

"Joan." Irene returned simply, but there was a core of menace in her voice that Holmes hadn't heard in a long time. "They're with me."

"Greedy, greedy," the other voice replied with mock-disappointment. "After all, there be two of them, and you such a little thing, ain't you now, Miss A?"

The voice was Cornwall-bred, Holmes knew, and elderly; a woman although there were no footsteps sloshing through the water.

"They're protected, Joan. Go hunt topside and leave us be," Irene ordered.

"Such a selfish thing you are," Joan's voice went from gentle to sharp. "Thinking yourself so high an' mighty because you sang on the stage above ground, when all you are now is a chit of a fledgling. Well I like my drink hot, and I'm not afraid to step over you for it, Missy."

"They're protected," Irene replied firmly, raising her walking stick higher. "I don't want to fight you, but I will if I must, dear."

The old lady gave a wicked little chuckle that sent a chill up Holmes' spine, and she moved forward again, appearing at the mouth of the tunnel. She was a gray, shapeless little woman, as unremarkable as thousands of others all through London, Holmes thought; until you noticed those glittering ruby eyes.

"T'won't be much of a fight—" But before Joan could say anything more, Irene had taken the walking stick and thrust it hard into the old woman's chest, the glittering tip of the unsheathed silver sword burying itself between her low breasts. Joan gave a loud hiss, like an angry train coming into station. "Oh you tattered streetbitch!"

She struggled, but Irene locked both hands on the stick, keeping Joan impaled on it. Watson yelped, but Holmes gripped his sleeve and held him back from interfering as the two women splashed in the slimy water. It was hard to see; poor light and foul steam filled the air of the tunnel, and Irene was forcing her adversary back into the darkness.

"We've got to stop them!" Watson insisted. Holmes shook his head and kept his grip on the other man.

"I think not; Irene is more than capable of taking care of herself, and distracting her would be detrimental."

"But . . ." Watson spluttered, his chivalry and fear at war with each other. Holmes paid no attention and kept his gaze on the tunnel entrance as the hissing died away.

A small figure stepped out; Irene's eyes glowed brightly like rubies for a moment, and then she gave a shudder. "That was . . . nasty. I never liked Joan, but if she wasn't going follow the rules . . . . We need to go up, and get you a cab back to the streets. I'll introduce you to the rest of our merry little band." So saying Irene deftly dipped her walking stick into the water, and the glitter of the long silver shaft caught the light from the lantern. Watson tried to peer behind her.

"Is she . . . truly dead?" he demanded.

Irene pursed her lips and nodded. "Truly, this time. Come along, gentlemen, and stay close." She took the lantern from Holmes.

Holmes made Watson go first, so that he and Irene were protecting him, and the three of them passed through the tunnel Irene and Joan had been in. There was no sign of the old woman other than a thick swirl of muddy ash quickly dissolving in the murky water, and an acrid smell that lingered along the limestone walls. Watson pressed a handkerchief to his face, but Holmes merely held his breath as they moved along.

It took a while, but eventually they reached a dead end, and a chipped flight of stairs circled around the cul de sac of the tunnel, leading upwards in the gloom. Holmes noted that the ground was dry here, and that the smell was far less noxious. He watched as Irene mounted the first steps and held the lantern high, motioning them to come forward.

She spoke softly. "Despite the size of the cemetery, Bow has only five, sorry _four _vampires now. Myself you know, then there's Luc, Anna and Joseph. None of them will touch you since I will declare you under my protection."

"Forgive me, but that's not _quite_ the reassurance I would have hoped for," Holmes replied dryly.

Irene managed a small smile, and the tips of her fangs peeped out when she did so. Watson stared at them, eyes wide.

"Dear God!"

"Sherlock, I have matters in hand, believe me. The four of us have reached a very practical arrangement and if I didn't have faith in it, I would have kept you in the tunnels until morning. You need to trust me on this."

"Trust is not a commodity we have much commerce in, Irene," Holmes reminded her, "and I am not willing to put Watson in danger."

"Sherlock, be reasonable," she chuffed, sounding human for once. "You know he's already in considerable pain, and forcing him to hike back to the center of London is going to make matters much worse. I'm offering you a chance to catch a cab here and head back to Baker Street in a more comfortable and timely manner."

He hesitated, knowing her argument was tempting, and Watson gave a low sigh. "We might as well; she's right."

Holmes gave Watson's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then looked up at Irene. The light put lovely shadows along her cheekbones, and the cut of her suit didn't hide the curves of her form. He felt himself stiffen, and coughed to hide it. "All right. But one false move by any of them, and we *will* go down fighting, Irene."

"It won't come to that," she assured him, and held the lantern higher.

They climbed, and eventually the stairs reached a rounded wooden door with a grille in it. Irene lifted the latch bar and opened it; beyond it lay sweet, cool night air. The three of them stepped out into a recessed doorsill set into a low rise of hill. Stretching out before them lay Bow Cemetery, ringed by dark woods. Overhead, the stars twinkled in the frost of the Milky Way.

"Air, what a lovely sensation," Watson gasped, managed a terse smile.

"There seems to be no one about," Holmes observed, and then as if to mock his words, three columns of mist rose up. "Ah. I am mistaken."


	3. Chapter 3

"Irrrrrene," a man's voice rolled out, the French accent making it almost a caress. "We sensed a . . . prrrrroblem?"

"Joan is . . . no longer among us," Irene announced quietly as the three shapes took form; Two men and a girl, all fashionably dressed, but pale and proud. They stood a little ways off, looking suspiciously at Holmes and Watson. Irene spoke again, her hand gripping the walking stick firmly. "Regrettable, but she refused to acknowledge these two as under my protection."

"Joan was old. And arrogant," the man who had spoken replied heavily. "Too used to following her own 'unger and putting us in danger."

"_And_ she didn't like you takin' charge," the girl added pointedly. "More the fool her. Aren't you going to introduce us like?" she asked, sauntering closer and eyeing Holmes with a bold smile.

"Back up, Anna; I've just killed for this one and I'd do it again, dear," Irene murmured with poisoned sweetness.

"He looks . . . tasty," Anna observed, but obediently stopped.

Irene looked up towards the sky. "It's early yet, and I need to put these two in a carriage heading back to the other side of London. I suggest you study them well—Doctor John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes. They're not to be touched by any fang from Bow Cemetery save mine; is that clear?"

The three vampires nodded agreeably; the Frenchman spoke up again, amused. "We are pledged to it, but remembair, Irene—there _are _ozer graveyards in London. What we promise here doesn't bind the rest."

She smiled then, white teeth and little snowy fangs glinting in the dim light. "Oh I'm working on that Luc, believe me. Given the population of London, there is no reason we Undead cannot come to some sort of accord."

"Accord?" Watson murmured, and Holmes heard the horror in his voice. "You mean a . . . a gentleman's agreement about hunting, don't you?"

"More or less," Irene nodded. "But in a far more civilized manner. It's complicated, Doctor, but consider this—too many vampires isn't good for anyone, and there are benefits to a peaceful co-existence. You, for example, are under my protection. In turn, I may call on favors from you as I need them."

"You'll get no favors from _me!" _Watson growled, but Holmes cleared his throat warningly.

"Now, now—keep in mind we are outnumbered twice over by our . . . benefactors, Watson. Perhaps it would be best to be a bit more open-minded."

"Instead of open-veined," Anna laughed with a touch of hunger. "You're lucky Miss Irene found you first, you know, elsewise you'd be dead husks with all your warm lifeblood inside old Joan."

Watson looked stunned, and Irene gave a slow shake of her head. "Anna's right you know."

"Yes, on the matter of _knowing_," Holmes spoke up firmly. "Precisely _how _would other vampires know we are . . . protected? I understand you four are in concord, but should you reach the same agreement with other vampires how will they know your protected ones? Or you theirs?"

"Tokens," this came from the man who had not spoken up until now. "A charm, mayhap or tag that bespeaks protection. Like letters of passage."

"Possible," Holmes agreed, but Irene cleared her throat and looked upward for a moment, cutting the conversation short.

"For another time, please. We who need to dine are losing hours. Luc, Anna, off with you. Joseph, I will need a coach heading to the center of the city—can you procure it?"

"Yes," the man nodded, and glided away. Irene turned, eyeing Holmes and Watson, her smile slightly sad.

"The world is full of hard, hard truths, gentlemen, and here's the one closest to you tonight. I need sustenance; by the time a coach has come and I have seen you off, I will have almost no chance to feed this evening. Therefore . . ."

"Therefore, the price of our fare is for me to be _your_ fare," Holmes finished smoothly. Watson shot a outraged glance at him.

"Holmes, no! You don't know if she can keep her word!"

"Actually," he replied coolly, "I do. Watson, when the coach comes, you are to get into it and go to Baker Street with all speed. I will follow shortly."

"Holmes!" Watson protested again, "You cannot expect me to just . . . just _leave _you here with a . . ."

"Vampire," Irene filled in helpfully.

"Yes! A vampire!"

"Watson, this is not the _first _time," Holmes confessed, his expression firm. "We need to get you home, and the price is more than reasonable. I am willing to pay it."

The look Watson gave him was horrified, but Holmes held his friend's gaze steadily until Watson finally growled in resignation.

The groundskeeper was another of the Protected; a sensible arrangement that even Holmes understood. The man ran a hot bath for Holmes and prudently left for the local pub to allow them privacy. Irene watched Holmes strip down; it wasn't the first time for that either, but he felt a twinge of mortification at the way she licked her lips.

"I am not a slab of beef, Irene; kindly refrain from your leering," he muttered, unbuttoning his filthy shirt and setting aside his cufflinks.

"You look like a rather prime cut to _me_," she replied, unfazed by his curtness. "On the lean side, but tender underneath."

"I'm sure you say that to every victim you've seduced." It was a cruel shot, but Holmes felt a stab of bitterness at the thought of it. Irene wouldn't have trouble finding willing men anywhere.

She never had.

"You're jealous," Irene murmured, her tone sad, "and it's a waste of time, darling, because dead or alive, I've never found anyone half as vexing and amusing and clever and stubborn and fascinating as you."

The declaration startled Holmes and he looked over his shoulder at Irene, who looked back at him, a small, sweet smile on her lips.

"How very . . ." he hesitated, torn between cynicism and a private yearning for her words to be true this time. Irene rose, sliding her cool fingers up to snag his shirt and pull it from his shoulders. She kissed his bare spine, just under his hairline, murmuring, "True. I don't have a lot to lie about these days, Sherlock. I will be young and beautiful forever, you understand; that _has_ changed my outlook on life. Or, afterlife, as it were."

"I suppose it would," he replied absently, trying to fight the surge of arousal her kiss brought. "Vanity vanquished."

"Maybe not vanquished, merely . . . placated," Irene purred. "Into the tub with you, darling."

Holmes stepped in, aware of his own stench and privately grateful for the chance to wash. Generally his own hygiene was a hit or miss affair when on a case, but the lure of hot water and soap had its own charm. He settled down and reached for the bar, lathering it up between his big hands as he watched Irene watch him, perched on the edge of the tub.

"You needn't stay, Nanny," he sourly told her. "I will remember to scrub behind my ears."

"You're very handsome when wet." Irene countered sweetly. "All glistening."

Holmes blushed. He couldn't help himself; Irene in her candid American way always managed to keep him off-balance. He supposed it was one of the aspects about her that enthralled him against his wiser nature. Without replying, he ducked his head under and began to bathe in earnest.

By the time Holmes had finished, Irene was holding out a towel, and her usual smirk had shifted into a gaze of lustful adoration. He took it and turned away from her, wrapping it around his hips and fighting to regain a sense of decorum. It was a fight he was losing—as usual—but Holmes felt it necessary to make the effort.

"And now?" he muttered. "Clothing?"

"Paxton's nearly the same size you are," Irene pointed out. "He won't begrudge you his second shirt and pants, I'm sure."

"I can pay for them," Holmes began, running a hand over his bristly chin. "Where are they?"

"Ah-ah. Not so fast," Irene chided. "First there's another price to be paid, isn't there?"

Holmes worked his jaw a bit. "Naked?" he finally asked, turning to face her.

"Oh I prefer you that way," came her low comment. Irene glided over, her gaze ruby and oddly sweet as she smiled up at him. "Come; it's much more comfortable _this _way—"

Holmes felt his resistance draining under the spell of her beguiling gaze. Placidly he followed Irene through the hallway until they reached a back bedroom where a single candle glowed on the nightstand. Irene motioned to the bed and Holmes slowly stretched out on it, the towel still around him.

"Irene," he began, slightly nervous. She swiftly slid out of her trousers and coat, shucking off her shirt with precision and speed. Holmes blinked, caught up in the marble perfection of her nude body as she dropped one knee on the bed and leaned over, her hands bracing her weight as she looked down at him. Long curls of her auburn hair tumbled forward, brushing his skin, and Irene's perfume drifted with it.

"Shhhhhhh," was all she said.

Holmes closed his eyes, and the press of her lips against his brought a rush of emotions and responses; all the desire and sorrow rising up in him. Irene kissed him, and kept kissing him until the sweet haze of lust made him slightly mad. Holmes gasped when she pulled open the towel and stretched herself out on top of him, a cool soft weight, like fine sand.

"Love me," Irene whispered against the side of his neck, "Oh please, darling . . ."

He did.

Fingers had memory to guide them, as did mouths and hips; after a while Holmes felt his breathing go ragged, and when Irene shifted, slowly driving herself down on his turgid shaft he grunted, the strain and thrill in equal measure. Her coolness added a strange erotic note to it all, and Holmes rocked up into her, growling, watching her fangs nip against her own lower lip as pleasure wracked her curvy little body.

The sight pushed his own rising crisis, and as Holmes felt the surge of unstoppable heat begin to surge forth, Irene dropped her head. The quick pinpicks along the side of his neck put sweet, dark pain into his orgasm. He thrust, each pulse of his cock connected to the sting at his neck, the pain and pleasure fusing together, leaving him breathless, hoarsely calling out her name.

They lay together afterwards. Irene was faintly warm in his arms now, her cheek against his chest. The towel had been pressed into service against his wounds, and Holmes felt a lassitude not unlike morphine, without the dullness the drug usually brought. Indeed, he felt more alive, and all of his senses seemed sharper in the afterglow.

"That was . . . extraordinary. And given our history of fairly intense moments-" Holmes sighed in bliss.

Irene laughed softly. "Mmmmm, It _was_ magnificent. I know you do not want to Turn, Holmes, but as long as you Feed me, you'll benefit from it my love. Better sight at night, heightened senses, longevity—all yours, strengthened with every encounter."

"That is . . . generous," he murmured, fighting the urge to sleep.

"And you are Protected," she assured him. "Sleep, Sherlock. There will be a cab for you in the morning. Don't come back to Bow; I won't be here in the coming months. I have work to do if I want to make this accord happen. Just sleep, my darling . . ."

When he woke alone, hours later, the candle had burned out, and the first beams of dawn were turning the horizon pink. Holmes dressed swiftly, and as he passed a mirror in the hall of the house, he paused, looking at his neck. The small punctures were nearly healed; two small red spots of no remarkable size, half-hidden by his collar.

More disturbing though, was smallest tint of burgundy to his brown eyes now.

The end


End file.
